


where he'd find peace

by bastaerd



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Fluff, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, allusions to the iliad and the odyssey, with like. a dollop of sadness at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24852394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd/pseuds/bastaerd
Summary: “It’s not a happy story, is it?”“No. But it’s a comfort.”“Knowing that bad things happen?”“Knowing that, despite it all, one man makes it home to the ones he loves.”
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	where he'd find peace

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a simple person. i see john bridgens, i burst into tears.  
> title from black sails s1 ep 02-- is this a story abt the odyssey or the iliad? fuck if i know!

John’s berth is as small as one might imagine, but it’s a grand sight, all the same. To Harry, he may as well have stepped into a manor-- or, better yet, a country estate, well-lived in and well-loved. The absolute lap of luxury, even if it’s about three and a half walls and little else. The ship groans around him, and here he is, tucked away in John’s little corner. Barely enough room to take another step, unless he wants to place himself right up against John’s back, but then again, that’s not something he would say no to.

John is busy with the small shelf above his bed. There was a book he wanted, for tonight, but he can’t help but run his thumb fondly along the row of spines as if assuring the rest that they would get their turn sometime soon. Harry watches, lips turned into a smile as John finally finds-- or turns his attention to-- the book he had had in mind. He crowds his space, finally, as John turns with it in hand.

“Oh,” says John with a startled intake of breath, but regains himself, cupping Harry’s elbow. “Forgive me my surprise, I’m not used to entertaining guests.”

“That must be a poor resume for a steward,” Harry teases him. John’s eyes crease at the corners, or, rather, the present creases deepen.

“In my own quarters,” he corrects himself, giving Harry’s arm a squeeze. This close, Harry can squint at the cover of the book in John’s hand; it must be a very used copy, because the title is worn away. He does his best at reading it by the shadows of the letters.

“The… Ill… id,” he tries, and before John can coach him through the letters, “no, The Ill… Iliad?”

John’s smile is an answer in and of itself, and one that Harry wants to kiss and kiss. For all the trouble it took for them to finally end up on the same ship, able to see each other every day rather than subsisting off of the occasional glimpse of one another from the decks, they still must exercise caution. In that sense, it had been easier to be separated.

“That’s it,” John answers, his voice swelling with warmth. “Well done,” and Harry remains secure in his opinion that hearing the smile coaxing John’s words into a lilt will be worth every measure of discretion required of them. He returns his focus to the book, and frowns at it, considering.

“It’s not a happy story, is it?” he recalls. John’s smile softens into something unreadable as his thumb flicks over the indentations of the title, reading it from touch.

“No,” he admits. “But it’s a comfort.”

“Knowing that bad things happen?”

“Knowing that, despite it all, one man makes it home to the ones he loves.”

Harry drums his fingers lightly on the cover.

“That’s The Odyssey,” he says. “I know that one. That comes later, John.”

And he knows it well; it was one of the first that John had lent him, back on the Beagle. He had slogged through it diligently-- and it was a slog, with how his eyes couldn’t seem to stick to one line long enough to parse the words before they dropped halfway down the page. But he made it through in a matter of weeks, and the full smile that lit up John’s dear face when he’d returned it to him had made it worth every second of the struggle it took to read it. Though it isn’t his favorite, it remains special to him, even now. In that sense, he can understand how a story might be a comfort for reasons other than its narrative. John makes a sound of agreement. Likely he remembers it, too, as he seems to have a perfect recollection of every book he’s pushed into Harry’s hands, and in what order. Knowing him, it’s likely that he holds the same sort of fondness for the book.

It’s there, at the far end of his shelf on the side closest to the wall. It’s small in its dimensions, and the cover is greenish. It fit perfectly into Harry’s pocket, and he had had to be very careful not to forget it on his person while on the riggings, so as not to risk losing it to the sea, or concussing an unwitting seaman, should it fall from a height.

“Well,” John says, mouth forming a happier shape again, “we’ll revisit that one next, shall we?”

The two of them get to bed. They negotiate the cramped space between them, the bed just wide enough to fit John but a bit too short for his legs, which he keeps slightly bent when he sleeps. Together, they decide to split the difference for the time being. John sits first, his back propped against the wall underneath the little library he’s got, and Harry fits himself between his legs, against his chest. As he crawls into the space John’s made for him, he can’t help but steal a kiss from him, earning him a chuckle and, more importantly, a kiss in response. Mollified, he turns himself over and lays back against John’s chest, his head pillowed on his shoulder, ear turned towards him as he listens to him read. At this angle, he can kiss John’s jaw under the bushy tickle of whiskers, if he cranes his neck to do so, which he does at every opportunity. Each time he does, John glances down to him and smiles, never pausing in his reading, even when his eyes are off the page. Harry thinks he must have the book memorized, and wonders how often John has needed this comfort.

Soon enough, Harry’s eyelids droop, and he can’t bring himself to fight sleep any longer with the soft lullaby of John’s voice in his ear. He turns his head against John’s collar as he does so, and John’s hand comes up to card through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“John,” he manages to pronounce through a yawn. “Can we sleep?”

John shuts his book and returns it to its spot on the shelf. Harry’s arms find his shoulders and drape themselves around him like a shawl, and he pushes his nose further into the gentle crook of John’s neck. The collar of his shirt brushes Harry’s nose, and he smiles against it, relishing the fact that they can be in each other’s arms like this.

“Yes,” John replies, settling onto his side and pulling Harry close. For the first time in the Arctic, they fall asleep curled around each other the way people do when they’re in love.

* * *

Grief lapping at him with every step, John walks as far as his legs feel like carrying him before they deposit him on the shale. Harry’s wallet sits in his hands, and he grips it tightly, imagining the polished handle of an oar, but he is no Odysseus. The last home he knew was a tattered tent that smells too much of sickness to bear, now, after Harry.

He doesn’t throw himself to the ground, or tear at his hair, or curse the gods, because he is no Achilles, either, but he now understands firsthand what drives a person to die for love.


End file.
